Ch. 1: Featherlock Swamp
Back to Arheled He was standing in a shadowy place. Overhead the stars were very bright and near, but where he stood it was dark. There was a salty softness in the air, and another smell too, a rich, strange, glorious smell that reminded him dimly of light. He had begun to walk after some time, uncomfortably conscious of eyes upon him, eyes somehow fey and unhuman. Dimly he saw forms in the shifting landscape he was walking through, but they were always still when he looked at them. It was hard to tell whether he walked through great trees or tall rocks; all was alike in the gloom. Then he crested a ridge and saw the deep land before him. That was what he called it, at least, for it was far below him, flat and formless and grey under the stars, and far off on the left, across the land, were high cliffs that seemed not grey but silver in the faint light. Where they should have run together with the cliffs he was on, a pillar stood, a mountain so huge and so impossibly tall its’ mounting base soon grew sheer, and the top seemed to reach into the very stars themselves, and could not be seen, for it faded into the black sky. Then Forest, drawn by a brightness, turned his eyes slowly to the right. He saw the sea, dark and waveless, a plain reflecting patchily the stars. Against it, however, rising up from the earth as if they grew from it like trees, two gleaming castles stood beside each other. Their walls were stepped, each step rising for a hundred feet before the edge of the next. The lowest level was continuous, linking the castles. Along every step turrets in fair and delicate shapes seemed to flow up from the wall, and trees grew behind them, but they wore leaves of gold. At the summit it seemed at first as if the walls frayed and spouted upward as fountains; but they were unmoving, for they were towers wrought with such eerie grace they seemed to fly. And the castle on the right was all of gold, or of golden stone, and yellow marble, and transparent gems of topaz and citraine quartzes the height of trees and shaped into beautiful forms; but the castle on the left was wrought of silver, and feldspars and quartz as pure as milk, and marbles like snow, and white and silver was the gleam it sent up, and dark green were the leaves of all the trees upon its’ terraces. Then Forest became aware that the sea was beginning to glow white, and every wave was edged with silver. Out of it rose a mighty ship giving off a hard steady light of blue and white, and it passed behind the castles and they glowed ten times brighter. Even as he looked he became aware that the sky was no longer black, but growing faintly pink and palest white and grey. And beyond the castles he saw upon the very sky itself, a mighty arch, and knew then that he was seeing the Gates of the Morning. Gold wrought into thousands of curling figures and shapes formed two mighty posts laved by the milky sea, and they rose to a great height, supporting a round arch of gold, shaped into the likeness of vines and twisting faces, brought out in deeper hues of yellow-gold and deep gold and red and orange. At the apex were wrought figures of the Sun and Moon themselves. Double gates stood shut underneath, and they were overlaid with silver, with panels featuring the likenesses of those Two Trees that were gone, and all about them were graven curling shapes and crescent moons. And the gates were opening. Beyond them lay only an utter black, but a light beyond bearing sailed amidst it, and it floated in great majesty through the silver doors, and they closed silently behind her. And the Sun sailed across the fiery waters of the Outer Sea, and entered the castle of gold, and that castle glowed like a shell when light is held behind it. Then a mighty light arose, gold and silver mingling, and the greyness fled the land, and that topless mountain was lit in all his length a shining white, and the Sun and Moon rose above the walls of their Havens and set forth upon their courses. Forest felt eyes upon him and whirled around. Exposed by the day stood the people who had watched him, standing like tall and fair statues here and there about the cliff; and their hair was gold, and flickering gleams escaped their long locks, as though they had been combed with liquid light. Their eyes too were gold, fey and uncanny: venda eyes. And all of those eyes were gazing at him. It was then that Forest woke up. The last days of August drew in. Nights were cool and clear, and days were warm and quiet. Some of the red maples were becoming frosted with color, and the bridge, fixed now finally by Mrs. Lake’s insurance, was speckled with fallen leaves. It felt almost like fall, thought Forest as he perched beside the bridge. His parents had excused him and Bell from going back to school, considering the threat of Cornello’s reemergence, and Hunter Light was at last beginning to realize the magnitude of the threat their enemy posed. He got them some old textbooks and such like and said that after Labor Day he’d be homeschooling them. “Can’t Mom?” Bell had wailed. “Every time you explain math it makes my head explode.” “Your mom has to work,” he answered, “and she absolutely stinks when it comes to passing on learning.” He then had made a big show of looking furtively around, and Bell and Forest both laughed. It was good to have two parents again. “Storm’s coming.” Arheled’s voice broke into Forest’s thoughts. Forest glanced up. The Warden wore his old costume of brown corduroy, plaid shirt and leather coat, but the face above it was no longer youngish. Craggy, worn by time yet undecayed, it seemed outside of age. “Yeah, they’ve been saying all week.” That a hurricane named Irene was coming. '' “An irenic name for such an entity indeed.” said Arheled. “Storms are not dead movements of boiled air, Forest. They live in a queer half-aware manner, for they are steered by the Weathers and born of the Four Winds of Heavens; and ruin is their purpose, and cleansing, and mocking.” “What do they mock?” “Why, they mock you, of course.” laughed Arheled. “You men. You have become so wise in your measures and your watchings that the motions of the weathers are foretold weeks ahead; you can count the rivers of the winds and calculate their factories; yet you cannot harness a single lightning bolt, nor control the course of the tiniest storm. Though your electric web ecompasses the earth, a storm can blot it from whole states with but a puff of its’ nostrils. The fearsome steeds of Aeoleus are loosed upon the earth to remind mortal Men that they are small.” “Even the ones you called up?” “Ah, the Great Flood of 1955.” smiled Arheled. “The lords who blow the airs brook ill any summons, whether he that compels be a demon or a ''venda, a witch or foe of witches; wherefore it is a perilous thing indeed to compel their attention or call upon their living might. A weather-superhero works independent of them, and meddles not with them. Winsted needed to be cleansed, and my rivers shoveled clean, for if the Daslenga cannot flow, and if the Slunchla cannot slunch for the choking of the mills, they would not be able to answer the call of the Road in its’ last need.” “I saw a warning.” said Forest. “The one I couldn’t paint. I think it was for you.” Arheled shook his head. “I have known that already for many ages.” he answered softly. “I know the strength of my Enemy. I know my own strength. Why do you think I am grasping so hard at every twig that lies to hand, calling the Children, building the Five, erecting as many walls as I can against the coming of the South?” “You mean we cannot win?” “The future is not known to me, Forest. I can see the storm clouds rise from it when I tread the roofs of Time, but I cannot see within them.” “But the Church is guaranteed to win!”'' '' '' “And the gates of hell shall not prevail…Non prevailabunt, non prevalabunt portaes inferni''…yes, so they say, so they always say, passing over any troubling Scriptures, assuming they are doomed to win; and any tribulations, they matter not, for after all we’ll all be Raptured!” “That was in May.” “The Christians walk serene into their churches, assured of victory, for the Church cannot be slain, she cannot be overcome. The Messiah he is King, he will conquer the Romans, he will trample on them in his anger till his garments are like those that tread the winepress. Assured of victory as they are assured of their salvation!” “But I thought all Christians were saved.” “Saved but not beautified, Forest. Was your mother saved when she drove out your father, or your father saved when he begot you out of marriage? The salvation of any human soul is in doubt while they yet live, and no less presumptuous is it to assume that we will win than to assume we’ll get to Heaven.” “The gates will not prevail.” “While Peter stands, so does She; but the gates could come up to his very rock and he alone be on it, and still the Church would live. We are not guaranteed victory, Forest. Fire will not come from Heaven until our last camp is besieged and our last hope overcome. When the Son of Man comes, will he find, think you, any faith on the earth?” “Why must it always be like that?” Forest whispered. “My child, my tender son,” said Arheled gently, “perhaps now you can see why it was not yet good for that picture to be painted. The knowledge of such things is a bitter secret indeed, but you and I can See, and such is our burden. Still, I do not despair, Forest. Neither should you, while you know what is real. For reality has many things, and many faces, but only One source. And He indeed shall never be cast down.” “But you are Arheled.” said Forest. “You walk the Road itself. Can it do nothing?” “It can do a great deal,” said Arheled grimly, “and it shall do even more. But do not be deceived. I am the Warden in White, but the Darkness is greater than I.” “This has been a strange year.” Ronnie said to Forest. Bell and Brooke were sitting out on the dock, dangling bare feet in the water and talking girl talk. It was the day after the strange conversation with Arheled, and the rumors of storm were persisting; it would strike Saturday, maybe Sunday, and so Bell had invited the others for a picnic while the weather was nice. “Mm.” '' And it will end stranger still.'' “We started out as quite ordinary people,” Ronnie mused, “and now here we’re battling dragons and wielding queer and increasing powers…things are rushing toward some fearsome end, Forest, much grimmer than the mere returning of the Road.” “To say the least.” muttered Forest. “Most of the Signs of the Hills have been explained…there’s still the Grapevine, and that Oak, and the date 1790…” “What is the Cannon?” “Yes, that’s what the Grapevine indicates. There was an old Revolutionary War cannon that was a town ornament till the Civil War, fired on Independence Day and all, and then it was lost for a while. Boyd wrote his Annals in 1847, I think…or was that 1874? Well, the Cannon figured in a couple of town riots, one time shelling the newspaper building when a mob was mad at the editor. Then it vanished for a few decades, turning up buried somewhere, I think or fished out of a pond, and then was fired off from overlooking hills—Cobble, Street and maybe Camp Hill were mentioned by name. I do know that it vanished again and this time was never found. Wha-at?” as Brooke began repeatedly shouting his name. “Come out here! We’re having an argument and we need you to settle it!” “Women.” muttered Ronnie with a smile, rolling his eyes at Forest. He headed out to the dock’s end, ignoring how it bounced and rolled under his feet. “You have good balance.” said Bell. “You’d better not have called me out here just to splash me.” he retorted, sitting down. Brooke laughed. “No, we were having a Tolkien argument and we need a loremaster to settle it.” “And I am as it so turns out, a Loremaster of Middle-earth.” said Ronnie in a Gandalf voice. “Okay. Bell insists that there’s a tale of the Garden of Eden, and I told her there wasn’t.” “Well,” said Ronnie slowly, “in the debate between Finrod and Andreth Wisewoman, she does give a sort of ‘corrupted’ myth of the Fall of Man, while Finrod deduces from the fact that or eyes have a tendency to go blank after we’ve looked at something for a moment…” '' “Seeking, seeking, always seeking.” murmered Brooke. “—Exactly—that we Men once came from a paradise, and from our interior longing he deduces our unfallen condition. But there was a tale, in the Book of Lost Tales part 1, which dealt with the Awaking of Men.” “Yes!” shouted Bell. “I knew I was right!” “Not wholly.” said Ronnie. “Tolkien carried it only partway. But you know, there are so many good new writers cropping up these days? I was on the Tolkien Wiki, they have a sub-wiki for Lord of Rings Fan-fiction, and one guy called James Farrell actually undertook to revise the ''Lost Tales. Complete them, bring them in line with the Silmarillion, integrating it. Quite an ambitious project, but my point is, he also took up that tale.” “I barely remember it.” said Bell. “It was a queer one,” said Ronnie slowly. “There was a wizard named Tû, of all things, a fay-being not an Elf, long before the Five came Over-sea, before the Sun. He ruled the Dark-elves around Cuevienon, the lake where the Elves awoke. One Elf named Nuin went into the northeast parts of Middle-earth and found a secret vale full of marvellous plants, and in it many sleeping youths: the Fathers of Men.” “Oh yes, I remember Men awoke in Hildorien when the Sun first rose.” said Brooke. “Some men.” Ronnie answered gravely. “Nuin told Tû of his find, and Tû told him he too had been there, and he passed lands laden with evil memory, and the stones spoke to him of abominable rites carried out in the darkness; from which he knew that Men had dwelt here before, but not all served Melkor, and these the One laid asleep, without memory or even speech, the fathers of the Edain, the good men of the North-west of Middle-earth.” “But I thought Men began when the Sun rose.” “Tolkien thought it over a lot. He realized that the language-structure of Men was too complicated to have arisen in the mere 400 years between the Rising of the Sun and the Coming of Men into Beleriand. I mean, even English hasn’t changed much in that amount of time. You can still read Shakespeare! Yet you have the folk of Haleth, with one language, Hador with a different dialect, the Druedain with yet another language, and Beor with yet a third, not to mention the Easterlings. And that’s just in Beleriand. “So he decided Men were made long before, and the sleepers in Eden were those who rebelled against Melkor, and speech was taken from them that the Elves might give them language. And Nuin and Tû guided them, until the darkness of Original Sin began to crop out, and quarrels arose and Men split into three groups. Then a demon named Fankil came and Nuin was betrayed to him by Atrai, whose name lives on as the root of ‘betray’, and Atrai then set all three camps of Men at war. Some stood by the Dark-elves, but most stood by Fankil, and the Elves were slain though their allies escaped. And at the last the ground shook, and Tû, who had grown increasingly to shun the daylight and dwell underground, came forth in great wrath and flayed Atrai alive. “And Fankil said to him, “’You would fit right in with us! Come and serve Melkor!’ But Tû answered, ‘Men I hate, but you more, and Melkor most!’ Then he and Fankil fought, and the land broke around them, and Fankil was slain, but Tû buried under falling hills.” “That is such a sad ''story.” said Bell. “I don’t know,” mused Brooke, “I like it.” Their conversation was interrupted by Hunter Light coming out the sliding doors. “Hey, kids, did you know there was an earthquake Tuesday? It was felt all up and down the East Coast. The cathedral in Hartford lost its’ steeple.” “Wait—here in ''Connecticut??” exclaimed Brooke. The eastern coast of North America seldom has any quakes at all. “Yeah, we get a minor one every now and then. The last one was a hundred years ago, they said. Nothing major; mostly a few chimneys falling over or something.” “A hundred years ago.” murmered Ronnie. “That would be about right.” Forest had not joined in much with the others. He had heard Ronnie’s story from the end of the dock, and afterwards he mostly sat at a distance, munching on potato chips and cookies and listening absently to his friends. A queer mood was on him, at once restless and gloomy, and he found himself glancing at times toward the bridge and his bicycle. It grew later. The sun sank lower, red banks of cloud surrounding it. Katydids began to sound in the trees. Forest, oddly restless, got up and wandered about, now here, now there. He should be doing something, he felt. As if he had to be somewhere and had forgotten what. He go on his bike and began pedaling up the shore road toward Winsted—the road around Sucker Brook was still being rebuilt. It wasn’t till he was bowling down Lake St that he knew where he was going. Maneuvering up Main St with all the parked cars and foot traffic was time-consuming and bewildering, but no one could see him, and so he worked his way over the hill by the highway entrance and down into the Super Stop & Shop valley. He had been deep in conversation when he had passed this way, many months ago, but he remembered where to turn. Soon he had left the dangerous Rt. 44 behind and was pedaling up the East West Hill Road. A stupid name, really; they should have called it Old North Road, as it was pretty obviously the southern portion of that first of roads; or maybe just plain West Hill Rd. But it’s hills were lower and less steep than the long climb of the western road, and besides he was pretty sure the swamp lay on this road. The sun had gone down, leaving a smouldering brightness in the west, and gloom was gathering under the forest trees. Yes, here the road paused in its’ final climb, running along the edge of a small narrow hollow on the left, spilling over a finger-lip of land. It was a swamp. As he went farther the swamp widened, a flat lap of land amid the hills. Queer feathery hemlock, deep moss, that mysterious feel stronger than ever. It was Featherlock Swamp. Hiding his bike near a broad bog, he entered for the first time the peculiar place. Low-branching featherlock pine crouched amid winding islets and hummocks made by their own moss-hung roots, or the boles of long-fallen trees, or the roots of trees long since gone into the bog. Green spagnum moss grew on the surface of the many boggy pools, which were now mostly black mud, and climbed in feahery pillows over the logs and tree-bases. Fern rose here and there in more open spots. In the dim, detailed gloam of dayfall the swamp had a tumbled, damp appearance. As Forest pressed on the steep ground off on his left receded, so did the road on the right, so that the narrow arm of swamp widened. He crossed trees that had been half pulled up, so that their roots bulged in hollow caves with water underneath and their branches swept the bogs. It became more open. Fern stood tall among winterberry, browning at the fronds with the lateness of the year. Then Forest reached the widest part of the swamp. Gone from view was the high ground. In the dim brown-green gloam details were clear and distinct, the star-shaped towers of the spagnum heads, the mushrooms, roots and boles and boughs of trees. There was a clear wet smell of moss and wet earth. Insects chirred sleepily in the background. There were no katydids here and few mosquitos. Featherlock closed in once more, with here and there an odd maple or oak. Here a tall cluster of red maples rose from a more dry isle, straight as pillars, four in a row and a fifth displaced. And nearby was the queerest sight in all that queer swamp. A hemlock of large size had slumped over, its’ tilted bole now twisting back up toward the light, stubby little branches growing from it. It’s roots arched up and over in a cave bigger than most, roofed with a few black roots hung at the base with moss, high enough to enter stooped; but the floor was black mud. There was utter silence. Even the infrequent murmer of a passing car from the concealed road was gone. Forest squatted on one of the tussocky roots. He felt only a great tiredness. The tree began to grow less distinct as the dusk began to close. Yet still there seemed a sort of dim brightness about the bole and roots nearest to him, as if they reflected a green light. And as he stared harder, the glow brightened; for it came from his own eyes; yet he no longer noticed it. There was something unright about that tree. The bole seemed to be growing transparent, as if it was only a form, a shape worn by a creature of quite another nature. He looked closer. He could see the essence of it, now; it was like a pale phantom stretched all through the tree, and the form was manlike, and bearded, and in a strange sleeplike state. “Who are you?” whispered Forest. The tree that was not a tree made no answer. Suddenly afraid, Forest stood up. The green light died in his eyes as he did so, and the appalling vision was gone. Giving the non-tree a wary stare, Forest turned and made his way out of the darkening swamp. Clouds drew in over Winsted. All Saturday they gathered, deepening as the day passed. Wind stirred now and again in the trees, but most of the time the humid air hung still and warm. On the Island everything was “battened down”; blowables were stored in the barn, the boats were tied securely, candles and flashlights and food supplies had been hoarded. Mrs. Lake had several juice coolers of water filled. Mr. Light had gone out and purchased a generator and gasoline cans. Night fell and still the heavens made no sign. Bell and Forest watched “Pirates of the Carribean” until their parents made them go to bed. It wasn’t until he was nearly asleep that Forest heard the first downpour begin, hard and rattling like hail of the roofs. He fell asleep with that in his ears and dreamed strange and awful dreams, in which a chunk of hollow land ripped loose from the collapsing hills on every flank and sailed like a ship, huge seas breaking upon it, until it froze and new land boiled up around it and became hard. Grey light filled the room when he awoke: it was daylight. Rain was roaring down in irregular waves, now louder, now softening to a patter. When he looked out the window he saw the leaves of the big oak all furled and blowing one way in a stronger gust; but it, surprisingly, wasn’t all that windy. The lake beyond looked misty. The power was out when he came downstairs, and his mom was just lighting candles, while from the back porch could be heard the roar of the new generator. Hunter Light came back in unwinding extension cords, and soon he had the refrigerator and deep freezer running. The room looked strange in the grey light of the glass doors and the flickering yellow of candles. “I just heard from T.I.C. that the storm was downgraded from a hurricane.” Mrs. Lake was saying. Forest ate cereal and orange juice in silence. The storm was making him sleepy. The back door opened and Bell came bouncing in, dripping wet, in her bathing suit. Fortunately their parents were back up in their bedroom, trying to get the battery-powered radio to tune in to the right station. “I went swimming in a hurricane, ha-ha, ha-ha.” she sang. “You should come join me, Forest. The water feels so good '' when its’ raining, and there’s waterfalls coming off the house.” “Cuhh-koo.” Forest muttered. “Coo-koo, coo-koo, we sing a happy sonngggg, coo-koo, coo-koo, we sing it all day lonnggg.” Bell teased. Forest looked supremely irritated: it was one of her pet ways of annoying him back before she and Dad left. “Oh, shut up.” he said. “Coo-koo, coo-koo, this song you won’t forget,” Bell sang, prancing around the table and spraying water on him, “coo-koo, coo-koo, it’s on the Internet.” '' I’ll put you on the Internet if you don’t stop it, '' thought Forest, and ate cereal with the smug expression of one who has delivered a devastating retort. She stopped in her tracks. “Okay, what did you just say to me in your head?!” she accused. “Um…I forgot it.” said Forest, looking alarmed. “Mm-hm. Well, I’m gonna go get dressed, so if you wanta swim, you’ll just have to do it by yourself, poo-hoo.” and the bathroom door closed behind her. Forest shut his eyes and shook his head, smiling to himself. In some ways it was really good to have his sister back. They couldn’t go to church since Mr. Light was afraid of downed wires, so they spent the day hanging around the dim, twilight house. Mrs. Lake had to use a propane stove to cook soup on for lunch. Bell played board games with Mr. Light until he realized that Mrs. Lake’s laptop could be plugged into the modem by generator and thus be still connected to the Internet, and spent the rest of the day trying to keep this operative while Mom was cursing the computer. Forest with a sigh put down his paints and played several rounds of Monopoly with Bell, or “Mono-lulu” as he called it. Bell drained him of cash with three hotels in a row. Forest lost interest and went back upstairs. That queer gloomy Sunday passed slowly. There were flashes of lightning at times, but no thunder. Forest opened the glass door around noon and stood there, dreamily, for a long time gazing out at the Lake. Rain processed in stately majesty of striped curtains like pillars of mist, steadily, unhurriedly. There were occasional gusts at long intervals. Leaves and small twigs were plastered to the ground like pavement. The air was warm and wet. Overhead the sky was a sad streaked gray. He felt sleepy and headed back upstairs to lie down, where he promptly lost touch with reality for exactly ten minutes and whirled down a confused corridor of images, chief among them a figure of blue light standing like Godzilla knee-deep in trees, and one hand was clamped onto a moving hill that was striving with it. Then he woke up, tired and groggy. “It says that power outages and flooding seem to be the main damage from the storm.” Mr. Light reported at supper. “By the way, did you guys notice the lake is two feet higher?” “Holy cow!” Bell whooped. “I wanta go swimming!” “The wind’s dying down; you might as well.” agreed Hunter. “I’m going to run into town to buy a paper.” The water was lapping over the fixed dock, making the floating dock a steeply tilted ramp where it was fastened to the main dock. Forest joined Bell, but the water was cold and Bell was rambunctious, and he soon went back inside. He came back out in a raincoat, and Bell got her sandals and squished alongside him in her suit. “We must look really weird.” she said. “Dunno what you’re talking about.” he retorted. “I’m making sure I can’t be seen.” ''With you. “I suspect a concealed jibe in that head of yours.” twitted Bell. “You only missed two words.” The gutters were pretty much streams, in places crossing the road. Farther up, towards the Ugly House and the Long Dark, complete waterfalls were pouring down the cliff, and the water sluicing across the road was opaque brown. They found one tree down, a big oak that took the wires with it, which explained why their power was out. It hadn’t fallen across the road. Bell headed back, but Forest walked on until he came to the spillways. Water flowed with ponderous majesty over both spillways, a foot or so on the emergency spillway and a full two feet on the main one. The deep thunder of the falls seemed to shake the air, and from the woods on the left the roar of the Plunging Shout sounded continuously. Monday all was clear and pleasant. Crews cut up the tree, and Mr. Light found that only a few parts of Winsted lost power. Even their area was back on by Tuesday; but they were an exception. “Dad says there were over 700,000 without power.” Bell said to Forest. “That’s a record. He says even Hurricane Gloria back in the 80s didn’t cause that much.” “It was needed there.” said Forest. “Huh?” “A storm hits where it’s needed most.” Forest said. “This one didn’t flood like in 1955. It struck the heart of the power of the magicians of society: their electricity. Some places will be a week without it. And this was only a heavy rainstorm.” “Forest, you’re scaring me.” said Bell. “You’re starting to sound like Arheled.” “Well,” muttered Forest, “he has been calling me a long time, you know.” Back to Arheled